


About Face

by TravelingMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Inspired by a myth, No Slash, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally written during the Great Hiatus, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, and was the result of much Reichenangst, to be specific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingMagpie/pseuds/TravelingMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock had really died? And what if death…wasn't always final?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this idea was inspired by RavenWriter89 and her fic Heartbeats and Footfalls, which is fantastic and brilliant and rather wonderful. Mine is less fantastic, less brilliant, and rather less wonderful, but I had fun writing it. It was actually some of the easiest writing I've done in ages. It just seemed to flow. 
> 
> I apparently like flipping things, so while RavenWriter's story was Sherlock going after John, mine is post-Reichenbach John going after Sherlock, who really did die when he leaped from St. Bart's roof. I would like to mention that this fic in no way reflects my actual beliefs about death or the afterlife, but it makes for a really good story. I have always had a bit of a weakness for Greek mythology.
> 
> I highly recommend that you go and read Heartbeats and Footfalls, partly because it's the inspiration for this fic, and mostly because it's an amazing fic and deserves a bunch of fans. :D
> 
> As always, the show and all associated content belong to the geniuses at BBC. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belong to all those who love them.
> 
> Enjoy!

Three years.

Three years, and still, John Watson visited this same plot of earth faithfully every other Saturday morning, never bringing flowers, never staying long. He’d march across the uneven ground of the ancient cemetery, stand over one particular grave for a few minutes—sometimes his lips moved, but no one was there to hear what he said—and then make a sharp, military about-face and stride away, a look of mingled relief and regret on his face.

Actually, he rather hated coming here. It was like having a scab you couldn’t quite manage to leave alone, but that bled awfully ever time you pulled it off again. Gradually, scar tissue would build up, and the wound would close. Until then, John Watson would continue to visit, faithful as ever, every other weekend.

He thought no one noticed. The few that did—Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft—didn’t bring it up. Molly refused to talk about Sherlock’s death, as though talking about it would make it real, and would change the subject as quick as she could. Lestrade met John for drinks every so often, and they both found themselves tiptoeing around the issue until it sat like a surly bear in between them. And Mrs. Hudson was apt to start in on some story or another and stop with a little choke of a sob halfway through.

John hadn’t realized there were other…watchers.

“’Scuse me, sir.”

John, on his way out of the graveyard, stopped, and turned. Three women, all wearing floral housedresses that fairly stunned the eye with their clash of bright colors, sat on a bench beside the path. Odd. He hadn’t seen them there when he’d come in. “Yes? Can I help you?”

The middle one, who wore a bedraggled sunhat that obscured half of her withered face, giggled. “I doubt it, luv,” she rasped, the crumpled silk flowers on her hat waggling forlornly.

The one who had originally gotten his attention—built like a lamppost and wearing a garish mix of green and orange—spoke again. “But I think we might be able to help you.”

Taken aback and unsure, John stammered a half-hearted, “Excuse me?”

They all three cackled as one. They even moved as one, their bony shoulders jumping up and down like giggling marionettes.

“Help you, dearie. You’ve lost someone haven’t you?” It was the one on the other end who spoke this time. She seemed the youngest of the three—perhaps only seventy or eighty rather than a few hundred years old. Her eyes were keen and bright, like a raven’s, as she stared up at John through a drooping cobweb of whitish hair that seemed to float about her face with no regard for gravity.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “A friend. A while ago.”

“Three years,” the cobweb-haired woman nodded. The lamppost woman and the one in the half-dead hat nodded in unison, all three heads bobbing up and down in time together.

John blinked. “Y-yeah,” he said, furrowing his brow. “How did you—”

“Because we pay attention,” the woman with the hat crowed. She pushed the flowered confection back on her head as if to see better. It immediately drooped back in place.

The lamppost pulled a ball of string out of the pocket of her green-and-orange housedress and held it up, as if for John to inspect. “We don’t like it when someone messes with our line of work,” she said. “Pun not intended.”

“No, no, I suppose you wouldn’t…” He really had no idea what she was going on about.

“Look at this!” She held up the end of the string in a twig-like hand and waved it as if it were something offensive. “Look at where they cut it! _Far_ too soon—look at this whole bit that’s left!”

“That’s…eh, that’s terrible…” John said, trying to leave with as much decorum as possible.

“But if Hermes can play favorites, so can we,” the lamppost continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Sister, you’re confusing the poor man.” The cobweb-haired woman elbowed her companion and gave John a piercing look with her raven eyes. “You’re John Watson, your friend is Sherlock Holmes, and you want him back.”

Now entirely ill-at-ease, John held up a hand. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I don’t really want to talk about it and—”

“We ain’t reporters, luv!” protested the woman in a hat. She pushed the brim up again and gave John a toothless grin. “We’re—”

“Now, you can’t tell him that,” the lamppost cut her off. “Mortals aren’t supposed to _know_.”

John started to back away. Clearly, these three old women were as mad as March hares. “You ladies have a _lovely_ day,” he started to say, but all three women stood and took a step toward him. He froze mid-step.

“John Watson, you listen to me.” All three woman spoke as one, their voices mingling together into a rough braid of sound. “I want to help you, but I can only tell you what to do. If you want to succeed, you’re going to actually have to do something yourself.”

He opened his mouth to say something—anything, this was getting _far_ too weird—but couldn’t make a sound.

“Go to the Underground station at the corner of Belmore and Wandsworth,” the three women continued, still speaking in perfect unison. “Near Larkhall Park.”

_But there is no station—_

“Don’t argue with me.” Finally, though they still spoke as one, the three women broke from their eerie sameness. The lamppost glared, the cobweb-headed woman shook her head—and the one in the hat gave him a broad wink.

“Go to the station,” they continued, still speaking in chorus, “And get on the train that meets you.”

“You’ll have to pay your own fare,” added the hatted woman, almost as an afterthought. “And they won’t take a card.”

“You can find Sherlock Holmes,” said the lamppost, “And you can bring him back. But only if you do exactly as you’re told.”

 _Bring Sherlock back_? In spite of himself, John’s heart leaped. Logically, he knew that Sherlock was long dead—he had seen Sherlock leap from a building, had held the detective’s lifeless hand, followed the medics into the morgue, and sat watch over his best friend’s cold body, staring at the dead eyes and the blood-crusted hair until Molly led him away. He had gone to the funeral.

Sherlock was dead.

He _knew_ that.

And yet, there was something to the idea…Something in him that refused to give up on hope forever. Something that said that there were still miracles in the universe and that this just might be one of them.

That was ridiculous. There were no such things as miracles—he was a doctor. He knew how the human body worked. And no human body could be dead three years and then, _poof_ , stop being dead.

“Go, John Watson,” the three women said in unison, raising their hands in either command or blessing. “Tell Pluto that Fate led you.”

Against his own will, John turned and began to walk away, feeling as if someone else was controlling his legs, propelling him toward the gate. When he reached it, the feeling faded, and he spun around.

The three old women were gone. Nothing was left in the old churchyard but grey stones, green grass, and the sound of the wind in the ancient trees.


	2. Chapter 2

He went home.

“It’s totally insane,” he told the skull that still sat on the mantelpiece. “Three crazy old ladies hanging out in a graveyard, talking about fate and the underworld and Pluto and bringing people back from the dead.”

The skull looked at him blankly.

“I mean, of course,” John continued, feeling as if he had do defend himself to the silent face, “I would _love_ to bring Sherlock back from the dead. That would be…amazing. More than amazing, that would be—literally—a dream come true. But it’s mental. People don’t stop being dead.”

Now the empty eye sockets looked accusing.

John stood up and paced the room, avoiding the white-and-black glare. “Yeah—yeah, I know. I know—that’s what I said. I said, Sherlock, please don’t be dead. And I meant it—I did!”

The skull hadn’t argued, but John pointed a reproachful finger at it. “I did _too_ mean it—but it’s impossible. It doesn’t happen.”

He ignored the skull.

He made himself lunch.

He flopped down on the couch and turned on the television.

He flicked through the channels and watched far too much of a poorly-written action movie, ignoring the way Sherlock’s skull stared at him.

Finally, he punched the _off_ button on the remote and tossed it across the room. “What?” he demanded of the skull. “You think I should actually go look for that station? There’s nothing there—I’ve been past it before. There’s no station there.”

Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door. “Yoo-hoo,” she warbled, “Is there something wrong, luv?”

John pulled his cheeks back in a grotesque attempt at a smile. “Nothing at all, Mrs. Hudson,” he assured her. “Just…talking to myself.”

“Oh, I understand, dear. I do it all the time. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.”

“No, no. I’m good.”

“Alright, luv.” She glanced up at the mantle. “You still keep that thing around,” she said with a sigh. “It’s a bit morbid, don’t you think?”

John glared at the skull. “Very morbid. You have no idea.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him. “Well, if you get rid of it, don’t be leaving it in my trash bins.”

“I won’t, I promise. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’ll see you later, dear.”

She left, and John sat and glared at the skull. “What?” he demanded. “Are you seriously suggesting that I go look for a train to the underworld?”

The skull said nothing.

John said nothing.

But the skull could say nothing for longer.

“Fine!” John exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. “Fine. _Fine_. Belmore and Wandsworth, here I come.”

He picked up the skull and very deliberately turned it to face the wall. “And I’m taking my gun,” he added.

The skull sat, facing the wall, in smug silence. John made a face at it, retrieved his gun from the bedroom, and left the flat, walking out into the cool afternoon air.

The station, when he reached the intersection, was indeed there. It existed. He had never seen it before, not in all of his time spent chasing Sherlock through the streets of London, nor in his aimless, rambling, exploratory walks on his own. John knew his city well. But he had never seen this station before. That, in and of itself, was enough to make him believe that something was a bit off about this whole thing. Not that the three crazy ladies hadn’t been a bit off too, but an Underground stop appearing where none had ever been seen before was a smidge more extreme than three old women being mental in a graveyard.

Cautiously, not sure what to expect, John went down the stairs into the small, dank station. It was dark, and quiet. There were no other waiting passengers, no tramps busking for spare change, no one at all.

But at the platform, a train sat. Waiting.

John stared at it. Honestly, this was all rather too surreal.

He turned around and began to walk away, but a shout from behind him—“John!”—made his heart leap into his throat.

He whirled around. “Sherlock?”

His eyes darted around the shadowy—and very empty—platform area.

There was no one there.

Only the lingering echoes of his name in that oh-so-familiar voice. Cursing, John strode over to the waiting train and climbed aboard.

“ _Mind the gap_ ,” a dead, monotone voice whirred. The car began to move, and John glanced out the window at the retreating station. _As if you could have really walked away,_ he chided himself. Swaying slightly to keep his balance, he stopped and blinked at his surroundings.

Instead of the usual, utilitarian décor of a modern car, the inside of this train looked exactly like an old railway car from the 1800s, complete with paneled walls, red-velvet seats, and gold trim. Padded benches lined up like pews in a church, and the place was lit by small gas lamps that shone with a well-polished gleam.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” a high, reedy voice said.

John looked up to see a tall, portly man in a straining waist jacket coming toward him. His pudgy face was topped by a thatch of hair like mildewed hay, and his eyes were a watery brown.

“Your fare, please?”

John searched his pockets and pulled out his wallet. “How much is—”

“No, no, no…” the pudgy conductor rolled his eyes. “Money is useless here, how often do we have to tell you mortals?” He said “mortal” the way most conductors would say “tourist” or “kid.”

Slowly, John put away his wallet, blinking. “What do you want, then?” he asked.

The conductor sighed. “This was all much easier back in the day. Though I don’t miss rowing that blasted boat. Now—you’re going to look for someone, aren’t you? I can always tell your kind. Think you can get something for nothing, mm? I don’t think so. You have to give something up. Do you have anything that belonged to whatever poor sot you’re going to fetch back? Something that reminds you of them?”

John fingered his wallet. There was a picture inside—a single photograph, taken by Mrs. Hudson on her disposable camera, of him and Sherlock. She had managed to catch them off guard during dinner one night, right in the middle of one of Sherlock’s imitations. John couldn’t remember which one—the stage lost a fantastic actor when Sherlock Holmes went into the criminal investigation field—but it had apparently been hilarious, because both of them were laughing. It was the only copy of the picture, and it was the only picture John had of the two of them looking happy. He kept it in his wallet—rarely took it out, but always had it there, just in case he wanted it.

If he gave it to this fellow, and couldn’t fulfill his quest, he would have lost this one link with his friend forever. Then again, if this insane plan worked, he wouldn’t need mementoes anymore. He’d have the real thing. He simply couldn’t let himself think of the alternative.

Drawing out the photograph, John stared at it for a long moment, trying to commit every detail to memory. It was ripped from his hand by the conductor, who glanced at it without interest, said, “That’ll do. Have a seat,” and disappeared down the length of the car.

John’s mouth was open to call him back, but he snapped it shut and sat without a word. Around him, the train rattled and rumbled like a real steam engine car of old. He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat, staring out the window at the textured blackness flowing past outside.

Deeper and deeper into the earth they rode, completely in silence save for the rattling of the wheels. The conductor never reappeared, so John had to content himself with exploring as much of the car as he felt safe poking about as the ride stretched on and on. They rode for so long, in fact, that he finally gave up on trying to keep his heavy eyes open and drifted to sleep with his head leaning against the window.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the stillness that woke him.

Blinking sticky eyes, John sat up and cracked his neck. The train had stopped moving. There was no sign of the pudgy conductor, and no sounds other than the ones he himself made met his ears. He stood, and made his way—feeling somewhat week and watery, the way one feels after a long, long car ride—to the door of the car.

“ _Mind the gap_ ,” warned the same, not-quite-mechanical voice.

He stepped out into a large rock cavern. Not a station, not exactly, though there was—at odds with everything else about this decidedly-odd experience—a park bench and a red telephone booth sitting a few strides from the train. John quirked an eyebrow at these, and couldn’t help but wonder who would be waiting for this train in order to leave, and who might use the telephone.

“It doesn’t actually work,” a young voice said. John, startled, spun to see a shaggy-haired boy standing behind him, his hands in the pockets of trousers that looked like something John’s great-grandfather would have worn. He wore a rough cap, and withdrew one hand just long enough to touch the brim in a sort of half-hearted salute. “We just keep it there to make people—mortals—feel more at home.”

“It’s actually rather…disconcerting,” John muttered.

The boy shrugged. “Hestia’s idea. She’s a bit odd, that one.” He jerked his head toward the other end of the cavern, where John could dimly make out the outline of a door. “I’m to take you in. And…” he held out a hand. “I need to take your gun.”

“What?” John’s hand went to where the gun in his pocket. “You’re not taking my gun.”

“Yes, I am.” The boy stared at him with such imperious eyes that John found himself releasing the handgun into the boy’s grasp with no memory of actually having taken it from his pocket. “Thank you.”

John stared at him, shook his head, and tried his best to remember that this entire escapade was truly happening and not the result of a poorly digested bowl of chili before bed. The boy led him across the vast stone room to the massive, grand doors at the end of the hall. They were only open part of the way, but even casually ajar, they were imposing. John tugged at the bottom of his jumper, wishing he had thought to dress up a bit for his appointment with…whoever waited on the other side.

The boy stopped at the entrance and called out in a loud voice, “John Watson, doctor and soldier, to see you sire.”

A deep, booming-but-hollow voice replied, “Thank you, Adonis. That will be all.”

The boy touched his cap again to John, and disappeared into the gloom.

Taking a deep breath, John stepped through the half-opened, immense door and found himself at the end of a long throne room. At the other end, a tired-looking man sat on a throne that looked disturbingly like a pile of bones sculpted into the approximate shape of a chair. He waved an impatient hand, and said, “Come in, come in. This may be the Underworld, but there’s no need to stand on ceremony. It isn’t as if we don’t have all the time in the world.”

John, falling back on his military training and keeping his head high, walked down the long aisle leading to the dais and the throne and the man sitting on it. Though, as he neared, he realized that the man wasn’t exactly a man. For one thing, he was far too large. Nearly twice as tall as John and built like a character in a Tim Burton movie, the man—the being—was all legs and arms and highly-domed head.

The being looked down at him as he neared and sighed. “I suppose you’re here to beg some sort of favor, aren’t you?”

“Pluto?” John asked, “I’m ah…I’m to tell you that Fate sent me?”

“Yes. You _are_ here for a favor. But worse,” the giant made a grimace that would have been nasty enough on a normal face, but on that death’s-head was something like a nightmare. “Worse, you’re here with _permission_. Which means I have to listen to you and can’t just chuck you into the river Styx and be done with the matter.”

Unsure whether to be relieved that he wasn’t in immediate danger or worried that the lord of the Underworld apparently liked the idea of his demise, John settled for a simple nod. “I’m here for Sherlock Holmes,” he said. It was as if a weight lifted off his chest as soon as he actually admitted that this was what he was doing—trying to cheat death, trying to break the rules of the Way the World Worked, trying to bring Sherlock back from the dead.

“I figured as much,” Pluto sighed again. He really was rather melancholy, John thought. Maybe he should leave his therapist’s number. He smiled to himself at the thought of her face if she had this fellow in that uncomfortable chair in her office.

“Very well,” the lord of the Underworld continued. “What have you brought?”

“Brought?”

“Didn’t Charon explain to you?”

“The old women said—”

“Whatever those old biddies said to you, it was certainly not the whole story.” Pluto wrinkled his nose, which caused it to nearly disappear into his skull-like face. John tried not to stare. He had seen a movie once where the villain was an evil wizard with no nose, and he had the oddest feeling that whoever designed that character had met Pluto on a bad day.

“You can’t get something for nothing,” Pluto explained, apparently oblivious to John’s fascination with his nose. “And before you offer, no I don’t take cash, check, or credit. Not even Visa. I’m also not interested in any kingdoms, herds of horses, beautiful maidens, or your first-born child. I’m a god—I can get those anywhere.”

“What do you want then?” John had nothing with him, had nothing to offer—he was an invalid army doctor, for Pete’s sake. He wasn’t exactly rolling in cash.

“I want something new,” Pluto sighed. “Something I’ve never seen before, and something that only you can possibly give me.”

“What?”

The being shrugged. “I don’t know. You figure it out.”

 _He’s bored_ , John realized, and nearly barked a half-hysterical laugh. Just like Sherlock, just like Moriarty—Pluto was intelligent, supernaturally so, and he had nothing to keep his mind occupied. He was _bored_.

“I can play the clarinet,” John suggested, only half-joking. Pluto made a face.

“So does my wife,” he said. “And it’s dreadful.”

“Song and dance routine?”

The look Pluto gave him would have felled an ox.

“I’m rather good at riddles.”

“Do I look like Gollum to you?”

John decided not to answer that one.

He stood there, under the cold, impassive gaze of the lord of the Underworld, and racked his brain. What did he have? What would be worth the life of Sherlock Holmes to this being who, as he freely admitted, wanted for nothing? The only thing Pluto _didn’t_ have was full access to the living world…

“What about…” John swallowed. “What about memories?”

For the first time, a flicker of interest crossed the dull, grey face. “What sort of memories?”

Could he honestly give that up? “Adventures,” he forced himself to say. “Sherlock and I solved crimes.”

“That sounds…promising.” Pluto stroked his bony chin. “You realize, of course, that you would be giving up those memories permanently, not merely sharing them.”

“You mean, I would forget?” He would lose part of his past—not just his past with Sherlock, but his actual past, his _life_.

Pluto gave a dismissive little wave. “Well, if you’re not interested, I’m sure I can get Charon to take you back—”

“No.” John cleared his throat and jutted out his chin. “No, I can I can give up a few of those.”

“How many?”

“How many will it take?” _How many of my memories of life will satisfy you, you shriveled old—_

“Careful, I can hear you.” Pluto sat and thought for a long moment. Finally, he gave a decisive nod. “Four,” he said. “But one of them has to be a big one.”

John closed his eyes, sorting through different moments. He couldn’t give up that first case, the Study in Pink. That was when he met Sherlock. Nor could he bear to give away the case with the Chinese gang, or the Baskerville case, or anything to do with Moriarty… But there were a few cases he thought he could sacrifice. Ones he had written down in any event, ones that had been exciting at the time, but nothing special in the long run.

He looked up at Pluto. “How, ah… how do we do this?”

The lord of the Underworld looked as excited as a cadaver on All Hallows Eve. “Bring the memories you are willing to sacrifice to the fore of your mind. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“And how do I know you won’t—”

“Won’t take more than I’m given? Please, Doctor Watson,” Pluto grimaced in distaste. “I may be the lord of the dead and doomed to an eternity of existence in the Underworld, but I’m not a crook.”

 _Fair point_.

John steeled himself. “Alright,” he said. “Whenever you’re—”

Suddenly, it was as if he had been plucked from that underground cavern and plopped into his old rooms at 221b. Sherlock—old, familiar Sherlock—sat on the couch, listlessly plucking at his violin. John, a bowl of steaming ramen in his hand, was walking into the room just as the door burst open and Detective Inspector Lestrade entered, a bit out of breath.

“Sherlock—it’s another one of the scorpion ones,” he said. “Will you come?”

In an instant, Sherlock transformed from languid lounger to a point hound. “John, get your coat,” he commanded in his familiar baritone voice. John felt both the excitement of his past self, looking forward to another day of being Sherlock Holmes’ faithful shadow, and the sharp nostalgia of his current self, hearing his best friend’s voice for the first time in three years.

Fascinated, John watched his memory play out before him, even as he participated in it. Somehow, he could feel himself reacting within the memory as well as his “real” reactions in the present. It had been an odd case: seventeen young women, most of them stage personalities of some kind, all poisoned by some unidentifiable breed of scorpion. Ten of them died, six were hospitalized in medically-induced comas, and the one that Lestrade had come barging into the flat about had just been taken by medics to a nearby emergency clinic. Each of the victims had apparently allowed a scorpion—one un-cataloged by science, as far as they could tell—to sting them multiple times on their stomachs.

As it turned out, they had all met a phony doctor whose daughter had died of anorexia as a result her involvement in the beauty-pageant-industry. The girls had all been told that the scorpion was some sort of weight loss/beauty treatment by the killer, who had bred the deadly strain himself. The Navel Treatment, John had called it.

As they came to the end of the adventure, John felt the entire episode slipping away from him, like a history fact that you need to know for the exam but can’t quite recall.

He opened his eyes to see Pluto, looking fascinated. “This Holmes fellow,” he said with relish. “Quite the character, isn’t he.”

“He is,” John managed, feeling off-balance and woozy. “Mind telling me—what did I just give you?”

“The Navel Treatment,” Pluto said, rolling the words off his tongue like poetry. “A clever title, I will say.”

John racked his brain to think of the occasion…and came up blank. He vaguely remembered posting something with that title on his blog, but the actual mystery was an utter blank. He could probe around the edges of the memory, feel the hole that was there, but…It was just a hole. Nothing to be remembered—it wasn’t forgotten, it was simply _gone_.

He coughed slightly, hating every second of this…this _devouring_ of his memories by a life-starved god of the dead. “Shall we go on?” he asked.

“Please do.”

Once again, John found himself within a memory. This one was much more “pedestrian,” to use Sherlock’s term. A string of robberies with absolutely no evidence left behind. No footprints, no fingerprints, no dust or epithelials or hair or other DNA—nothing. Sherlock had eventually, with the help of an American lab tech who had recently tracked down a serial killer with a similar MO, discovered that the burglar was using a special suit. The material the suit was made of used static electricity to actually _remove_ evidence from the scene. Thus, nothing for forensics to find. Anderson and his team of specialists had been quite annoyed, but the case earned the department a well-deserved recognition from the Powers That Be. As was actually quite usual for Sherlock, he had disclaimed any official gratitude, satisfied with a puzzle solved and the look of consternation on Anderson’s usually-smug face.

John came back to himself sitting down, having apparently collapsed at some point during the…removal. He was panting slightly.

Pluto looked intrigued now. “And he takes no credit for his cases solved?” he asked.

John, to his consternation, didn’t quite know which case they were talking about. He felt rather like a child who had been called on in class, only to realize that he’d been daydreaming out the window for twenty minutes.

“Ah…” he blinked. “No credit? Ah—right. No, no, Sherlock cared more about being right than being thanked.” He _was_ thanked, of course, especially in the private sector and often with most generous gifts. But most of the time, he would just slip out the back and be all triumphant to himself on the way home. John propped himself up with a hand on the cold, stone floor. “We nearly done?”

“Halfway there.”

Pluto didn’t even give John a chance to ready himself this time, before hungrily diving into the memory John held waiting.

It was the counterfeiting case. This one had been sent over by none other than Mycroft Holmes, who needed someone a bit less official to look into a ring of money printers in Northern Ireland. A couple of smooth impersonations, bluffs, and a container of black-light-visible powder dusted all over the fake cash had closed that case with relative simplicity, but the leader of the ring had been a clever chap and outsmarting him gave Sherlock cause to chortle for several weeks after the case was closed.

This time, John found himself crumpled entirely to the floor with Pluto looking down at him in a sort of disdainful concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.

John knew that the being was more concerned with getting his final taste of _Life With Sherlock Holmes_ than with the welfare of Doctor John Watson, but he pushed himself into a sitting position, breathing heavily, and rasped. “Fine.” There was a cold sweat on his forehead, and a trembling in his hands, not to mention some glaring and uncomfortable blank patches in his memory. He suddenly realized that even if Pluto _did_ decide to steal more memories than the deal specified, he would never know. Pluto could take _years_ of his life, and John would never be able to remember that he forgot. He cleared his throat four or five times and wiped moisture from under his eyes. “Last one.”

Pluto squinted at him. “It had better be something important,” he warned. “Something that means a lot to you, something that has made you the person you are.”

“Why?” Not that the reason would change anything—John had chosen this memory carefully. But he still wanted to know _._

“Because I am you, John Watson.” Pluto spread his hands, almost as if in a blessing. “I am equal parts Sherlock Holmes, Abraham Lincoln, Stalin, Dickens, Shakespeare, Cleopatra, and every other person who has ever lived. I am the last repository of memory. When the dead pass the river Styx, they shed their memories, and their memories flow into me.” He shrugged and admitted, “It’s not exactly the most pleasant of experiences at times. Generally, I don’t even read them, I just put them in storage unless they’re needed for some odd reason.”

“Then why…” John tried to catch his breath long enough to form a full sentence. “Ahem. Why do you…need _my_ memories?”

A slow smile, like tar melting on a hot day, spread across Pluto’s face. “Because _you_ ,” he said, “Are still alive. The memories of the dead are faded, photographs that have sat in the sun for too many years. All the colors blanch out and the details dissolve. But your memories are fresh and warm.” A pale tongue ran over the being’s sallow lips. “They are…delicious.”

John shuddered. “Wait,” he said, suddenly, straightening up in alarm. “The dead lose their memories? Then if I get Sherlock back he will be—”

Pluto waved a hand. “I’ll give his back—god’s honor.”

 _Whatever that amounts to…_ “Fine,” John relented. “Let’s get this over with.”

“As you will.”

The last memory was not a happy one. It wasn’t one that John held on to because it reminded him of the way life had been, but it was certainly, as Pluto had put it, a memory that shaped who he was today. In fact, it was part of the reason he had ventured to the Underworld at all.

It was a sunny afternoon. It shouldn’t have been sunny, he remembered thinking. It should have been raining and cold and blowing so hard that umbrellas were useless and people had to be wet and miserable. The entire world, he thought, should be miserable. It was only fair.

He stood, the gentle sunlight beaming down on his taut face, before an open grave. He didn’t hear a word of the service, all of his attention fixed on the glossy red lid of the coffin before him. One wreath of flowers—roses, with no card to identify the sender—graced the top of the coffin, and a bleak, black headstone already waited to mark the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective.

He had spent the night before with Molly, sitting in silence in the kitchen of 221b, with Mrs. Hudson fussing over them like a mother duck, bringing coffee, and tea, and little sweets, until Molly finally broke. She and Mrs. Hudson held each other and cried, while John simply sat and stared at the clock on the wall, ticking away the seconds.

Now, his own face reflected in the polished side of the coffin, he stood as the minister finished the short ceremony and wondered if he might never feel again. Physical sensations, of course. But grief, or joy, or anger or anything else that made a human a human? He couldn’t picture it. It was the opposite of his war wound, actually. That had made all physical sensation fade, save for the aching pain in his shoulder, and the phantom pain in his leg. But his emotions—in escaping death so nearly, he felt more alive than ever before. This…this was like having the part of his brain that felt things disconnected and buried with his best friend’s body.

John had picked this memory with care. He figured that, one way or another, he’d be better off without it. If he succeeded in returning to the world above with Sherlock at his side, he would have no need to remember the funeral. But, if he should somehow fail—if Pluto wasn’t satisfied with the memory—then at least he wouldn’t have to keep that particular memory in the same mental drawer as all of the good ones.

This memory faded more slowly than the others had. John, now a trembling, weakened wreck on the floor of the cavern, felt as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks or slept in days. He struggled to lift his eyes to Pluto, and blinked in shock.

Tears, black and thick as oil, streamed down the being’s cadaverous face.

John gaped at the being, who shook his head and swallowed two or three times, making a dull clacking sound in his throat.

“I have never seen death from the other side,” he whispered, his sepulchral voice reduced to a breath. “I have never… _felt_ what death is from that perspective. There have been memories, of course, from others of the dead, but never ones that fresh or real—too often, they are tainted by the more recent memories of their own deaths.”

John, barely able to keep his head up, nodded—though he wasn’t sure why.

Pluto cleared his throat, and wiped a hand across his face, clearing away the dark tears. “Thank you, Doctor Watson,” he said. “You have given me a precious gift.”

He sat in thought for a long moment, and then cleared his throat.

“Adonis!”

At his call, the boy who had greeted John at the train appeared from behind the throne, a look of awe on his small face. John got the idea that he’d been eavesdropping, and had just seen a side of the lord of the Underworld that he had never experienced before.

“Adonis,” Pluto rumbled, pulling himself back into his normal, distant persona. “Bring the doctor some ambrosia, and then—when he’s recovered—take him back to the station.”

Adonis nodded, and darted off into the darkness.

“Station?” John protested weakly, dragging himself upright. “What about—”

“Your friend will be there to meet you,” Pluto assured him. A grave look came over his face. “However,” he said, “There are requirements.”

“Of course there are.”

Adonis reappeared at John’s side and handed him what appeared to be a steaming cup of Earl Grey. John took a sip and felt as though he’d drunk liquid sunlight. Energy and life flowed back into his limbs, and he straightened. “What are they?” he asked.

Pluto held up a finger. “First,” he said, “You cannot look at or speak to your friend until you are both back at your home of 221b Baker Street.”

“But—”

“This is my law.” There was no room for argument in the god’s voice. “Second.” He held up another digit. “You may never tell another soul what you have seen and done here.”

John took another drink of the tea. “Not even Sherlock?”

“Him, you can tell,” Pluto acquiesced. “But none other. Whatever story you make up to explain his sudden reappearance in the world of the living, it can have nothing to do with me, this place, or even the three old women you met in the cemetery.”

Nodding, John agreed. “Understood.” He stood, feeling even stronger and more alive than he had felt upon arriving. Adonis took the still half-full teacup from him, and John turned to follow him out.

“One more thing,” Pluto stopped him. John looked up at the god and saw some flicker of the emotion that had brought tears to the being’s eyes. “And this is my gift: Never again will you and Sherlock Holmes be separated by death. When next my servants come to fetch one of you, they will come for you both.”

John’s eyes stung, but he blinked fast, snapped to military attention, and gave Pluto a sharp nod. He didn’t say “thank you,” but he knew that the dark, brooding being understood.

Pluto gave a final, dismissive wave. “Go,” he ordered. “And tell no one what you learned here.”


	4. Chapter 4

John followed the young Adonis out of the throne room of the lord of the Underworld, and back to the “train station.” He felt as though he had been dunked in acid, hosed off, baked, and then dropped into a soothing bath. Fear, excitement and relief warred in his mind, and there was a feeling oddly like nerves in his stomach. Even the incongruity of the red telephone booth beside the lurking train failed to quiet his exhilaration.

“Climb aboard,” Adonis told him as they reached the waiting train. “And whatever you do, do _not_ turn around. Even for a second. If you do, you’ll find yourself back where you started, your friend will be returned back across the river Styx—and there are no second chances.”

John swallowed, the last lingering taste of the marvelous tea turning sour in his mouth. “Got it,” he agreed. “May I have my gun back now?”

Adonis shrugged, retrieved the handgun from the depths of some hidden pocket and reluctantly handed it over. Then he grinned. “Mind the gap.”

“Thanks.”

John boarded the train, took a seat near the middle of the car—sitting behind the door so he wouldn’t have to turn about to disembark—and set his face forward, determined not to look behind him for anything in the world.

The train started moving.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, looking out the window. Where was Sherlock? On the platform, Adonis gave him a short wave and a thumbs-up gesture. Biting the inside of his cheek, John watched the boy and the red telephone booth and the park bench and the whole dark cavern disappear. He didn’t dare look back, but he didn’t understand what had happened. Had Pluto cheated him after all? Where was Sherlock?

The rhythm of the train raced in time with his own panicked heart. He breathed in, held the breath, and released it. Breathed in again, held, and released.

There was an echo of breath behind him.

Reflexively, John made as if to turn around, to look behind him—and froze at the last second. He listened, holding his breath to hear any other noise than the rattling of the train as it sped through the underground darkness.

Nothing. That is, he didn’t _think_ he heard anything, but just on the edge of hearing, there was the soft sound of air moving. Something—or someone—breathing, very faint, very light.

John wasn’t alone in the train car, and it didn’t sound like the wheezing breath of the portly Charon. He sat back against his seat, trying to relax the tension out of his shoulders, and listened to the sound of breathing.

Gradually—so gradually that he didn’t notice the actual changing point, only the change itself—the sound grew stronger. John was certain now that someone was sitting, and perhaps sleeping, in the seat behind his. The soft, regular sound of breathing, mixed with the dull _clack, clack, clack_ of the train over the tracks, lulled him into a state of near-sleep. Just as he was on the edge of actually drifting off—he wasn’t sure how long they’d ridden, but it didn’t feel nearly as long as it had been going _to_ the Underworld—the train slowed, and came to a stop. Looking out the window, John could see the deserted station he had started from, and the shallow stairs leading up to the sunlit street above.

The pattern of the breath behind him shifted.

“John?”

John’s heart leaped, and he couldn’t stop the grin that plastered itself, foolishly, across his face. They weren’t in the clear yet, but Sherlock’s voice—groggy, the baritone a bit rusty with sleep—was the best sound in the world.

“John, is that you?”

John nodded, careful not to turn around. He stood, and stepped toward the door.

“John, look at me.”

This could be a problem. Closing his eyes to keep from catching anything in his peripheral vision, John shook his head at Sherlock. _I can’t look at you, you idiot,_ he thought, silently pleading for Sherlock to just _follow him_ for pity’s sake. He continued toward the door, and heard the unmistakable sound of Sherlock’s coat rustling behind him as the detective got to his feet.

“John, you really need to explain what’s going on here.”

_I can’t. Not yet. Just follow me, you great, blithering—_

“Five minutes ago I was in the middle of a discussion with Edwin Sutherland about patterns of criminal behavior and now I’m here, on a train, and apparently not dead. I want to know _what is going on._ ”

John, frustration setting in, gestured impatiently with one hand, opening the door of the train with the other. He stepped out onto the concrete platform, and heard Sherlock heave a sigh behind him. Holding his breath, John walked across the empty station toward the stairs, listening to the following footsteps of his friend.

“No.”

John froze, nearly spinning around to give Sherlock an exasperated look. _What now?_

“John, this is all…” the detective cleared his throat, and John winced, picturing the look of distaste on his friend’s face—not understanding, hating that he couldn’t understand, and hating that he had to admit he didn’t understand. “It’s all too strange. I _like_ strange, but not this strange. I’m not moving another step until you explain.”

 _Don’tsayaword, don’tsayaword…_ John tried moving a few steps closer to the stairs that led—so beckoningly—into the sunlight above, but Sherlock only said, in a voice so low it was nearly a growl of frustration, “I mean that.”

Various curse words in several languages flew through John’s mind and stoppered up against his lips. He gritted his teeth and hunched his shoulders, thinking. Sherlock was one of the most insanely stubborn people he had ever met; if he said he was going to stand there until the matter was explained, he would. John _couldn’t_ explain, at least not yet, but if he didn’t, he would never have the chance to.

Three years, three _blasted_ years of wondering what he could have said to stop Sherlock’s fatal jump, of trying to shift on his own and keep life ‘normal’ and of visiting his best friend’s grave, and it all led to this? He went to the freaking _Underworld_ and gave up his memories to Pluto for pity’s sake! And it was to all end like this? Sherlock refusing to follow him because, for once in the detective’s life, he didn’t understand and couldn’t get an immediate explanation?

Hopeless, the only thing John could do was slowly reach his hand out behind him. And wait. In silence. In utter stillness and wordlessness, hoping against hope that Sherlock would just _trust_ him, and that physical contact wasn’t against Pluto’s rules. The lord of the Underworld hadn’t said anything about it, but it probably wasn’t the wisest move ever to try and find loopholes in the decrees of a questionably-sane deity.

 _Come on, Sherlock_ , he sighed mentally, his hand extended behind him. _It’s not that difficult…_

Seconds passed, then a minute. Neither man said a word, but neither did Sherlock take John’s proffered hand. Outside, there was the roar of traffic, the sound of pedestrian feet, and a far-off rumble of a jet plane. In the small station, though, the only sound was that of John’s breathing.

His shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes in defeat. Sherlock never had—and never would—trust him that much. Sherlock Holmes trusted no one but himself.

A cold hand touched John’s, and he nearly jerked it away, startled.

“I’ll follow you,” Sherlock said. He gripped John’s hand strongly for a second, as though sealing a business transaction, and then dropped it.

Relieved, John lifted his head, blinking away a bit of moisture in his eyes he hadn’t realized was there. He stepped forward, into the light above.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Sherlock clear his throat. “It’s ah…it’s rather bright, John,” the detective said, as though admitting a fatal weakness. “I’ve been in the dark a while.”

John understood. He nodded, and led the detective carefully up the shallow steps and into the street, Sherlock’s hand gripping his shoulder the whole way.

The world outside seemed normal—almost unusually normal, strange as that sounded—to John after his otherworldly trip and in spite of the fact that the hand of a dead man rested on his shoulder. The sun was just beginning to set, turning the sky a soft blue, with lavender sipping at the western edge. John was unsure of how long he had been gone—was this late on the same day, or had weeks passed? He supposed, in the long run, it didn’t matter. He just might have to do some explaining at the surgery in the morning.

No one seemed to give them a second glance as they walked through the streets. Then again, one sees stranger sights than one man leading another every day in a city the size of London. People probably just assumed that Sherlock was vision-impaired or something. John had decided to walk, rather than try and take a cab and risk accidentally glancing at Sherlock. But he had underestimated just how far of a walk it was, and got them lost once. Sherlock, though, with a little laugh, corrected him and directed their steps from the rear until John found himself in familiar territory once more.

At long last, as the last daubs of purple and scarlet faded from the sky, the two stood once again before their old flat at 221b Baker Street. John felt Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder tighten just the tiniest bit, and he smiled. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the flat.

“We made it,” he sighed, nearly weak with relief but wanting to jump and shout anyway. He turned to grin at his friend. “Sherlock, we did it—”

A flash of light with the power of a supernova exploded across his vision, and he stumbled back, throwing his hands instinctively over his face. A sound—roaring water, or a train rushing away at high speeds—filled his ears, and John found himself tumbling backwards without a wall or even a floor to catch him.

And then he was sitting in his chair. In his living room, in 221b, and the sky outside was dark.

He was alone.

Unable to move for the shock, John stared across the room at the dark window.

A whispered expletive, like a breath or a prayer, slipped from his body on a sigh. Then again, louder. He had spoken too soon, hadn’t waited long enough. One more step, one more moment, and Sherlock would have been inside the flat. A matter of inches, and he had _failed_.

The muttered curse became a shout, and John flung himself out of the chair, swiping up a cold mug of tea that sat abandoned on a small end table. He hurled it across the room, shattering the green ceramic into a dozen shards against the wall. The tea splashed across the wallpaper, a dark stain spreading across the pattern and streaking down in slow, black tears beneath the yellow smiley face that, even after three years, John hadn’t taken down. The mocking, yellow smile filled his vision and became Pluto’s face, black crocodile’s tears rolling down over that death-head’s grin.

Breathing hard, his shoulders heaving, John let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. He had failed—had _lost_ —again.

The skull, sitting on the mantelpiece, sat like an accusation. It wasn’t even facing him, but scorn emanated from the dull, white orb. Deliberately, John crossed the room, and picked it up.

“Who cares what you think?” he asked it—and then hurled it through the open window.

A screech sounded from below, and John flinched, waiting for the crash. Unintelligible shouts and the loud honk of an automobile horn blared.

“Stupid skull…” John muttered, just as someone banged on the front door.

John waited, listening for Mrs. Hudson’s scuttling footsteps. He heard nothing, and when the knock came again, he growled. He’d give the irate driver—whose front window had probably just been shattered by a human skull falling from the sky—something to make his ears burn. Gritting his teeth, he made his way down the stairs to answer the door. He moved like an old man, his long enemy of a limp reappearing for the first time in nearly two years.

He swung open the door, a blistering series of expletive-laden phrases springing to his lips.

“Dreadful manners, John,” said Sherlock Holmes, holding the skull in one hand like a parody of Hamlet. “Dragging me all the way back from the Underworld just to leave me waiting on the stoop. And you nearly broke my skull!”


	5. Chapter 5

It was right again. The flat, the city, the whole _world_ was made right again. The black coat thrown over the banister. The long bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Two mugs waiting for coffee—one with milk, one with two sugars. And two men, the best of friends, friends that even death couldn’t keep apart, sitting in two facing chairs, sipping their steaming drinks in contented silence.

John’s face was troubled. “But…The light. I thought—I was upstairs. I assumed…”

Sherlock shrugged. “So did I. Perhaps Pluto is in a good mood.”

John snorted at that. Then he recalled the lord of the Underworld’s promise. _Never again will you be separated by death. When next my servants come, they will come for you both._ Perhaps there was some goodness in that miserable, dark heart after all.

He caught Sherlock’s glance at the wall and the half-dry stain. The detective motioned with his mug. “Did you—”

“I’ll clean it up.”

Again, silence fell. But it was not the empty silence of a lonely flat, a silence that John had grown used to in three years. Nor was it the silence of the Underworld, where the river murmured the names of the long dead and Pluto’s sad wife played meandering, tuneless melodies in the darkness.

This was the silence of friends, which says much more than words ever can.

“How will we explain it?” John asked, after a long while of comfortable quiet had passed. From the street, headlights streaked across the windows, casting an irregular glare across the room. “How will we explain to people that you’re…not dead?” He reached for the lamp, flooding the room with a yellow glow.

Sherlock looked up at him over the edge of his mug. “I don’t entirely know the answer to that myself,” he pointed out. “Why don’t you explain to me first.”

So John did. He told Sherlock everything—from the three old women in the graveyard to the train station, to meeting Pluto and the deal they had struck. When he had finished, Sherlock considered him for a long moment.

“You…gave up memories.”

John shrugged and gave a bit of a smile. “ _Deleted_ them, I guess.”

“Mm.” The detective was quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, John settled more comfortably into his chair. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice loud. “It, ah, it was…worth it.” He met Sherlock’s eyes, daring his friend to argue. Sensibly, the detective didn’t press the issue.

“As for what to tell people,” he mused instead. “Well, that’s fairly easy. We’ll say I faked it.”

“Faked it!” John scoffed. “Faked a fall from a four story building?”

“Not the fall—just whether or not I was actually dead. Bring Molly Hooper in, say she substituted a body. She won’t ask questions.” Sherlock set aside his mug and steepled his hands in front of his chin, such an achingly familiar sight. “Perhaps Mycroft can take some of the blame for my “faked” death. He does have a good deal of influence with the press.”

John shook his head. “It could work, I suppose…”

“Of course it will work.” Sherlock gave a half-grin. “People will believe anything.”

“Not anything.” John highly doubted that anyone would believe him if he tried to tell the truth. Perhaps it was better that Pluto had forbidden it.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll say I hid away until Moriarty’s gang was out of the picture, and came back when it was safe.”

“But _are_ they out of the picture?”

“Indeed. Most of them, anyway. A few smaller fish have slipped my dear brother’s net, but on the whole, he’s done a thorough job.”

John cocked his head. “How do you…know?” he asked. “I mean, you _have_ been gone for three years.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’ve been in the _Underworld_ , John. Where dead people go.”

“Oh.” John updated the mental note in his head not to ever get on the bad side of Mycroft Holmes.

They sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes, until Sherlock absentmindedly patted at his pocket. Not finding what he was looking for, he asked, “Where’s my phone?”

John nodded toward the mantle. “In a box. Your brother let me keep it after the, ah, the rooftop.”

Sherlock stood, and took up the small wooden box that held a few of John’s mementoes. Withdrawing the phone, he thumbed it on. “Fully charged,” he said with some surprise.

John just shrugged again. “What do you want it for?” he asked.

Sherlock’s fingers flew across the screen, texting, and he flipped it around for John to read with a wicked grin on his face.

_Lestrade. I’m alive. What have you idiots mucked up while I’ve been gone? –SH_

“He’ll never believe that’s from you,” John protested. “And if he does, he’ll have a coronary.”

Sherlock shrugged and hit _send_. “Nothing changes.”

John looked up at him, standing where he had so often stood in the past, phone in hand, a mischievous light in his eyes, ready for adventure, ready for the game, ready for the _work_.

He smiled. “Nope,” he agreed.

“Nothing changes.”

 


End file.
